


Better than a four-leaf clover

by Beginte



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, Geralt lets his inner dork slip loose, Geralt thinks he isn't a romantic except he is, Good Luck Kisses, Idiots in Love, Jaskier loves his occasionally sticky husband, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:28:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28461669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beginte/pseuds/Beginte
Summary: "I've been going over the numbers while you were off doing your... thing, and I've calculated that I owe you 408 kisses!"Geralt blinks. A large clot of blood and ooze dislodges itself from his hair and drips past his left eye onto the tip of his boot."What?"Jaskier crunches some numbers; Geralt finds out he's a bit of a romantic (but he's going to keep that to himself).
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 23
Kudos: 235





	Better than a four-leaf clover

Geralt isn't a romantic man. He's barely a man, in fact. He's a witcher, half-bred and half-made, designed to kill monsters and collect enough coin to feed himself and mend his weapons so he can kill more monsters again. No thought given to romance there. No matter how many songs Jaskier sings about it.

And romance and love aren't the same thing. Geralt is in love (albeit much to his own surprise still, sometimes), but his ability of romance is wanting at best, he thinks.

But.

When Jaskier kisses him before each hunt – long and thorough and loath to part – Geralt can't help but hold him close, draw the kiss out longer, slot his hands into well-loved and familiar places on Jaskier's body; doesn't stop the fond rumble gathering in his chest each time Jaskier says:

"For good luck, my dear."

Geralt is not romantic, he doesn't think. But it's just him and Jaskier and just a handful of woodland creatures for audience, so on the edge of a hunt Geralt prizes those kisses, their outpouring of love and affection, and the echo on his lips that stays with him in the face of death and monsters and reminds him what he has, what he _will_ come back to.

And when he drinks the potions – toxic, viscous, souring his blood into flame and ice – he keeps Jaskier's kiss on his lips, fancies it an antidote to the ugly taste pouring from the bottle.

Fine, perhaps this one does make him a little romantic. But nobody needs to know that.

It's easier, coming back from a hunt when he knows Jaskier is waiting for him together with Roach. And another thing is, Jaskier is a very good lover – he knows how to kiss someone to leave them wanting more. Geralt can _very_ personally vouch for that. So once a hunt is done, once he checks that he's still alive and the inventory of his limbs and internal organs is more or less where it ought to be, a ribbon of warmth tugs somewhere in the vicinity of his chest. It tugs and it unfurls, and he follows it through the haze of waning potions and often pain, back to the camp, back to a fire, back to a quietly hummed song, back to Roach's snorting. Back to Jaskier. Back to someone who loves him and greets his return with a smile and a kiss instead of coin.

So perhaps Geralt is slightly romantic, after all. He must be getting old. Or perhaps that's just what happens to people when they fall in love. He can live with that.

"Ah! Geralt!" says Jaskier when Geralt shuffles back to their camp, guts dripping off his hair and gore squelching in his boots, an array of useable and sellable innards sliding about in a sack hanging from his grip. "Excellent timing!"

The way he snaps his journal closed and rises off the log with a flourish tells Geralt he's been sitting there for at least an hour, waiting to stage this moment.

"Why."

Jaskier saunters closer, his brown hair silky-soft, figure effortlessly graceful, clothes pristine; Geralt is annoyingly conscious of his slouch as well as the bit of something slimy and squishy and _still warm_ stuck in his right boot.

"I've been going over the numbers while you were off doing your... thing, and I've calculated that I owe you four hundred and eight kisses!"

Geralt blinks. A large clot of blood and ooze dislodges itself from his hair and drips past his left eye onto the tip of his boot.

"What?"

"Well!" Jaskier dances closer to him, hands flying with a gleam of rings but stopping just short of making contact with the slime. "I've been kissing you for good luck before you go off on hunts for four years now, but we have twelve years to make up for! Twelve, Geralt!"

"Hmm," says Geralt, striding over to the stream, dropping the sack on the way, and only just fighting off the urge to dunk his head below the surface; instead, he kneels by the edge and gathers water in his hands and splashes it in his face to clean off the grime. Or at least start cleaning it off, anyway.

Beside him, Jaskier keeps talking.

"I went over my notes – at least the recent ones, as I store the previous volumes in Kaer Morhen and at the Academy, as you well know, of course – and it looks like you average about thirty-four hunts per year, what with wintering in Kaer Morhen and all. So, thirty-four times twelve gives us four hundred and eight, which means I have a lot of backlog to clear, my love."

"Hmm."

Geralt wipes his face clean and as dry as he can; the potions have faded from his blood, and the toxic emptiness they left behind warms slowly, filling with the familiarity of Jaskier's voice. It seeps into Geralt's blood, the antithesis to the potions: it soothes where they flared, it quiets where they screamed. His heart slows back to normal, and the world tilts into place.

And Jaskier keeps talking, keeps feeding that warm thing nesting in Geralt's chest.

"...indeed my duty as the artist to take care of my muse. Really, this is a most serious matter!"

"You're right," says Geralt, standing up, and strides over to pull Jaskier close, ignoring the squawking about blood and guts and silk. "Let's start right now."

He presses his lips to Jaskier's in a firm, steady kiss; it starts out as a playful thing, but Jaskier's lips are soft and warm, and Geralt drags the kiss out, makes it slow, lets it warm his bones before he pulls away to smile at Jaskier's half-smitten and half-disgruntled look.

"One," says Geralt solemnly before coming back for another kiss, slower still and more thorough this time; his gore-smeared armour is still pressed to Jaskier's clothes, and he knows he'll give Jaskier all of his soap to make up for it. "Two..."

Jaskier's squawks stutter into laughter, and eventually melt away altogether.

**Author's Note:**

> I love them so much, come celebrate the new year with me by screaming about these two <3
> 
> *dramatic gasp* I live! (mostly) Ugh, my friends, I've had a rough two months, but I swore I would post one of my WIPs in 2020, and technically I did it! Hopefully more (and longer) fics coming soon!
> 
> Thank you for a lovely fandom year, friends, here's to more <3


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